Gospel Story Finder

To kick off the project, we invited the Reverend to come and speak in the Luton Ward during the second hour of a fifth Sunday meeting. He talked about the support he and his church were giving and how we could be of help. Members of the Luton Ward were encouraged to start volunteering at the drop-in sessions. The youth planned an activity to sort out their overflowing and disorganised toy cupboard, as well as purchasing needed toiletries from local supermarkets for asylum seekers. The Reverend was amazed to see all the youth there bringing toiletries, and even more amazed that the leaders had made purchasing toiletries a competition for the youth. One ward member even volunteered to be Father Christmas for their drop-in session right before the holidays.

In 2021, my parents were called as mission leaders over the France Lyon Mission. In 2022, Elder Soares came to visit. In his talk to the missionaries, he mentioned that his luggage got lost on one of his flights.
This was kind of a wake-up call for me. It’s easy to see apostles and prophets on our screens and think that life is easy for them. But our leaders don’t ask to do this—they are called to do it. They choose to follow the Lord, and that means leaving behind their plans for the future.
Elder Soares taught me what it means to be a disciple of Christ. Even though he was busy and had his own struggles, he tried to talk to as many members as possible. I realized that the General Authorities are people like you and me who have chosen Christ and work to show His love.
Lydie L.

Once a group of young men went to a lake. They took a bow and 10 arrows with them. After all the arrows had been shot and had fallen harmlessly into the lake, one boy decided to swim to the middle of the lake to retrieve the last arrow. He dived in and headed toward it. He got it and then turned back to swim for shore. By this time he was extremely tired. His wet clothing weighed him down. Holding the arrow in his hand made swimming very difficult. He began to fear he might drown, and he called out desperately to his friends for help.
“Put your feet down and walk to shore,” they called back to him. He couldn’t see things clearly, but his friends, who were looking at things from the shore, knew he was in shallow water. All he had to do was stand up and he would be safe.

President Kimball said: “Sometimes … when a repentant one looks back and sees the ugliness, the loathsomeness of the transgression, he is almost overwhelmed and wonders, ‘Can the Lord ever forgive me? Can I ever forgive myself?’ But when one reaches the depths of despondency and feels the hopelessness of his position, and when he cries out to God for mercy in helplessness but in faith, there comes a still, small, but penetrating voice whispering to his soul, ‘Thy sins are forgiven thee.’ ”

There never was a time in my life when I questioned my father’s faith. His convictions were stamped indelibly upon his life, firm enough to withstand whatever trial, adversity, or challenge presented itself.
When I was a boy we lived on a small Utah farm where money was scarce and work abundant. During those early growing-up years the summers seemed especially difficult to me and filled with endless drudgery. There were beets to thin, corn to hoe, and ditches to clean; the troublesome weeds always grew back; there was always another crop of hay to haul.
The one saving balm, the one pleasant oasis in the midst of all the summer labor was the Sabbath. We all knew that Sunday was the Lord’s day. The weeds, the hay lying in the field and the unharvested grain would all wait until Monday.
Stopping work on the Sabbath was not always as easy as hanging up a hoe and not returning to the cornfield. There were complications. The summers were the only real opportunities to harvest financial security. If a farmer did not prosper during those short summer months, the long winters were lean and difficult. The crops had to succeed, and more often than not, the key to this modest prosperity was water-water that was scarce in Utah, water that seldom came in the form of rain, water that had to be stored meticulously during the winter and spring and spent and rationed carefully throughout the hot, dry summer weeks.
Each farm was dependent upon the irrigation ditch. The ditch, with its life-giving water, was all that stood between the farmer and disaster. Irrigation was imperative, and at times that posed a real Sabbath dilemma. Some years a farmer’s turn fell on Monday, some years on Tuesday, some years on another day of the week. And sometimes the turn fell on Sunday. The farmer had no choice.
Like everyone else, Father’s turn came on Sunday some years. I remember those years well because I was always impressed by my father’s determination to keep the Sabbath day holy. I don’t suppose the Lord would have condemned him for irrigating his farm on Sunday. He knew father’s heart, and He knew the circumstances under which he and the other farmers labored. However, father wanted to avoid even that Sabbath labor. He was convinced that were the Lord to make out those watering schedules for the farmers, no turn would ever fall on his Sabbath. I never heard Father verbalize his resolve not to trespass on the Lord’s holy day but his life reflected it.
When father’s turn fell on Sunday, he did all he could to avoid Sabbath irrigation. Friday and Saturday he would watch at the irrigation ditch for any run-off water from the farmers up the line. He squeezed every available drop from the ditch, and by Sunday the farm was irrigated. I don’t remember that he ever had been forced to work on the Lord’s day. This meant more work for him, but father was willing to make the sacrifice if it would allow him to rest on the Sabbath.
Everything always seemed to work out. As I observed him through the years, his dedication and resolve were a testimony to me that the Lord blesses those who strive to keep his commandments.

One autumn many years ago I was a new graduate student at Columbia University in New York City. In a large classroom full of students, our professor was discussing modern imitations of ancient texts. As he cited a list of forgeries, I was startled to hear him add the Book of Mormon to his list.
Instantly I knew I could not leave the classroom without doing something. I could not disappoint my ancestors, whose testimonies of the Book of Mormon had led them to sacrifice everything.
After class I approached the professor, who held the Charles Anthon chair at Columbia. More than 100 years before, Martin Harris had come to visit Professor Anthon at Columbia. Martin carried a paper with engravings copied from the plates from which the Book of Mormon was translated.
I remembered my father sharing with me a letter his father wrote about Martin Harris. My grandfather told of seeing Martin shortly before Brother Harris died. When grandfather asked him about the Book of Mormon, Martin raised himself up from his bed and bore a strong testimony. He did see an angel, he did hear his voice, and he did view the plates of gold.
“My name is Diana, and I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I said shakily to my professor. “The Book of Mormon, for me, is a book of scripture. I would like to hear your reasons for calling it a forgery.”
As we walked across the campus, the professor, who had read the Book of Mormon, listed several objections to its authenticity. I hurriedly wrote them down, and when he had finished, I asked him, “May I write what I learn from sources on the subject in response to these objections?” He agreed.
I walked back to the dorm, closed the door of my room, knelt in prayer, and began weeping. I felt weak and inadequate. Fortunately, that evening we had a Church activity. Following a discussion that lifted my spirit, I asked for help from the full-time missionaries, who had attended. They shared some sources of information that covered most of the points raised by my professor. Then I searched the vast library of Columbia. In my paper I addressed the professor’s questions and offered my testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. Then I gave it to him.
I waited several weeks for his response. Finally I asked him if he had read it.
“Yes, and I gave it to my wife to read. She told me, ‘Whatever you do, don’t destroy that student’s faith.’” He then turned and walked away.
As Christmas drew near, I was strongly impressed to give him a copy of the Book of Mormon. I found a copy, added my testimony, and thanked him for reading my paper. I then wrapped the book in Christmas paper and gave it to him. Shortly afterward, I received a handwritten note from him in which he expressed gratitude for receiving a copy of “this remarkable book.”
When I read his words, my eyes filled with tears. The Spirit whispered that this professor would no longer hold up the Book of Mormon to ridicule. I was grateful the Spirit had softened hearts and helped me know how to teach my teacher.

A friend accompanied her daughter to look at graduate schools in the eastern United States. Her highly motivated and talented daughter knew that by attending the number-one school of her choice, she would incur enormous debts for her education. Often the best education is worth paying for, but in this case, her daughter prayed and felt that while a high level of debt might not prevent her from marrying, it might eventually prevent her from stopping work so she could stay home with her children. Be wise. Each of us is different. If you seek His counsel, the Lord will let you know what is best for you.

Two days before the reception Grandpa and I were sitting in my bedroom drinking apple juice and club soda. Grandpa told me again about the day he married Great-grandma Marie, the civil ceremony in Fremont, and then, the train ride to Salt Lake City.
“Ted and Katie can fly to Salt Lake and get married tomorrow. But it took us three days by train,” Grandpa explained. “So we were married before, to make the trip respectable. It was an expensive marriage for me, but it was worth it.” He smiled at me. “The right things are difficult sometimes, but they’re always worth it.”

Because the girls’ father drives a taxicab at night, the family holds family home evening at midday. Loli and Pili can still remember their very first one. The lesson was about becoming an eternal family. A guessing game is a favorite family home evening activity. Someone writes on a piece of paper the name of something; then another player asks questions for clues and tries to guess what it is. If the guesser doesn’t guess it, he gets a thimbleful of water poured on his head!

Visibility is generally low in Lake Mead in Nevada, and since we were diving shortly after a storm, we knew it would be very difficult to see. The weather, however, was beautiful. So we loaded our equipment on the boat and headed out. We beached the boat on a small island about 150 yards east of where we knew a large boat had sunk years before. After putting on our diving gear, we swam the distance on the surface of the water to the buoy that marked the location of the wreck.
Once we reached the buoy, we descended below the surface along the rope that held the buoy to the boat far below. Visibility was even poorer than we had expected. We held tightly to the rope as we continued our descent, trying in vain to see through the murky darkness which surrounded us. We could not see the wreck until we were within ten feet of it. For the next 40 minutes, we explored in and around the large boat.
When we decided it was time to return to the island, I indicated to my friend that we should return underwater rather than surface swim. Swimming underwater is far less strenuous, and I had no desire to repeat the exhausting surface swim which we endured before the dive began. Suspended a few feet above the lake floor, I looked at my compass and decided to head directly east. I had unwisely not taken a compass bearing before descending, but I had noticed that our boat was generally east.
My friend and I swam for about 20 yards before the lake bed dropped out of sight below us. We needed to maintain our current depth rather than descending with the lake bottom, so we continued east for another 50 yards. At that point my friend and I conferred. As we looked around, we could see no more than ten feet in any direction. The murky darkness around us was eerie, and we knew if our original compass bearing was off by a few degrees, we would miss the island entirely. We decided it would be safest to ascend to the surface and complete our swim to the island from there.
I checked my depth gauge. It said 55 feet. We began our ascent. Looking around, we could see nothing but dark green, murky water around us and our bubbles rising to the surface. We were being careful not to go up too quickly. A good rule is to not rise faster than your smallest bubbles. Our small bubbles were creeping past us, so we felt safe. After about a minute, I knew something was wrong. The light was the same, the temperature had not changed, and there was no easing of the pressure on our bodies. It did not feel like we were rising. I checked the depth gauge again. It said 58 feet.
What?
All that time I thought I was making positive progress, I was, in fact, sinking deeper into the depths below. I began kicking faster toward the surface and kept a close eye on my depth gauge because I now needed to rely on the instrument to guide me to the surface. The needle began to creep slowly upward.
My friend had adopted a similar strategy, and we moved together toward the surface. The murky darkness around us lightened. The water temperature began to rise, and the pressure on our bodies began to ease as we continued our ascent. When we broke the water’s surface, I felt an incredible surge of relief. Looking quickly at my compass, I realized we might have missed the island had we not decided to surface when we did.
As we broke the water’s surface, one thought struck me. I thought of Lehi’s vision of the tree of life where he sees many people pressing forward along the straight and narrow path toward the tree which represents the love of God. As the people progress, a mist of darkness arises to blind the eyes and harden the hearts of the people. Never before had this story hit me with as much force as it did that day at the lake. When I was below the surface, I was blind as to which direction to go and I had difficulty getting my bearings.
My compass and depth gauge helped me that day, but it would have been much easier to follow the same rope to the surface which we had held onto as we had descended to the wreck. I felt what a desperate state we can find ourselves in if we do not hold fast to the iron rod—the word of God—to keep us on the path toward eternal life.

Besides bringing their family closer, working together has also prepared the Schwieder children for the challenges of life. For example, Jay was already characterized as a hard worker by the time he arrived at the Washington Tacoma Mission because the mission president heard that he grew up working on a farm.
“I decided that if that is what he thinks, then I’d better work hard,” Jay says.

In a few languages, translations have been made by people who were not Latter-day Saints, but whom the Lord inspired and guided to accomplish the work. For instance, the Afrikaans Book of Mormon was translated by such a man, who was eminently qualified and highly recommended by local leaders. He commented that when he had difficulty with a given passage, he searched the Book of Mormon carefully in other languages for help. If that failed to produce something he could feel right about, his only recourse was to kneel and ask the Lord what the passage should say in his language. He was never disappointed.

Guidance can come when grappling with a serious challenge in life. Years ago, in the days of my early scientific research in a field that was then new to medical practice, a scriptural standard of truth gave me the courage needed to persevere. I leaned heavily upon these verses in the Doctrine and Covenants:
“All kingdoms have a law given;
“And there are many kingdoms; for there is no space in the which there is no kingdom; and there is no kingdom in which there is no space. …
“And unto every kingdom is given a law; and unto every law there are certain bounds also and conditions.” We learned laws that pertained to the “kingdom” of our concern and mastered control that had previously been relegated by ignorance to chance alone.

Several years ago my husband and I were dumping a load at the local landfill when I noticed one of the ladies who worked there picking up a box to put into the incinerator. Suddenly the box broke open, and some photographs fell out.
As I watched, I had a strong impression to go and get that box of pictures. I jumped out of the car to help pick up the pictures. The lady and I both felt that the photographs had been thrown out by mistake, and I convinced her to let me take the pictures to try to find someone who would like to have them.
Sifting through the hundreds of photographs in the box, I found an envelope addressed to someone in Warburg, Alberta, Canada. Over the next several years, I wrote a few letters to people with the same last name, but I never got a reply.
After my family got access to the Internet, I discovered that there was a historical society in Warburg. I asked if anyone who worked there recognized the names I had found on the back of the pictures.
One month later we received a call from a man who had been contacted by the historical society. He said his sister lived close to us, and he asked if she could see the pictures. Of course we said yes.
The next day, Floyd and Beth Hawthorn, both Latter-day Saints, came to see the pictures. When I opened the box, Brother Hawthorn said, “Well, there he is,” pointing to the picture on top. It was a picture of Sister Hawthorn’s grandfather.
As they picked up picture after picture, Brother and Sister Hawthorn told us stories about the people in each photograph. The Hawthorns doubted that they were related to the person who had discarded the pictures, and they had no idea why the photographs had ended up at the landfill.
I feel strongly that Heavenly Father helped me return the photographs to the Hawthorn family. I testify that family history work is one of the most important works to be done. If we are willing to do the work, the Lord will help us do it.

My soccer teammates were teasing my friend, so I stood up for him. I’m trying to be like Jesus and be a good friend.
Micah A., age 10, Pennsylvania, USA

A missionary in Holland, after performing a baptismal service for five adults, said to me: “When I was home, I had a good job and I could go to a show or a dance whenever I wanted to. But I wouldn’t exchange an experience such as this for all the shows or dances in the world.”

The spiritual balance of these young men surfaced in a van full of priests traveling from Orem to Dead Horse Point the day the outing began. The conversation was about motorcycles for a while, but then it shifted somehow to the scriptures—so smoothly and naturally that you couldn’t quite remember how it had happened. It was as if trail bikes and Bibles might have something to do with each other in the lives of these young men.
And maybe they do.

For Mackena, 15, her testimony did not come until after a very personal, painful trial of faith (see Ether 12:6).

“Until the time I was about 12,” she says, “I had never had a single doubt about the gospel. I knew that the temple was where I was going. I knew that my family could be together forever, that Heavenly Father loves me, and that the Church is true.

“But once I got into middle school, I began doubting a lot. And for three years I didn’t know that the Church is true. It was really hard. It was the loneliest, most terrible, saddest time in my life.”

Then one day her seminary teacher taught, “If you want faith, then it will come.” The message struck a chord with Mackena.

“I decided that I really wanted faith, because I was miserable. So I prayed a lot and I started reading my scriptures by myself for the first time in my life. And I repented. Now I feel that Jesus Christ is my very, very best friend. I know that He knows me and loves me.

“I’m just really grateful,” Mackena says, “because now I know how precious my faith is to me, and I never want to let that go—ever.”

I know of a great man who held his dead son in his arms, and said, “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power and authority of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood, I command you to live.” And the dead boy opened up his eyes.

This great brother could not have possibly done that had he been looking at a pornographic piece of material a few nights before or if he had been involved in any other transgression of that kind. The priesthood has to have a pure conduit to operate.

The crew is divided into two teams—the light crew and the ground crew. Members of the light crew man the light towers, making sure that spotlights are correctly aimed at the right places. It gets a little lonely up on a tower in the dark, knowing that the success of a scene will depend on your doing just the right thing at just the right time. But it helps to know that your fellow crew members know just how you feel and that they are pulling for you. “We can all feel the joy of everyone else.”
For example, probably the key scene in the whole pageant is when an actor portraying the resurrected Christ is suddenly illuminated in the darkness above the stage and slowly descends. Having the spotlights in just the right place is crucial. As one of the tower crew tells it, “Towers seven and eight ‘pick up’ the Christ figure. And as a light tower person, I can feel their excitement.” Another finishes for him: “We all just heave a sigh of relief when they do a good job.”
“There’s nothing any of us wants more than for all of us to do a good job.”